Gentle Humor

Suzanne Olsen's Humor Blog - I don't offend some of the people most of the time

Heroics to Stop a Crying Baby

By

On July 12, 2010

In Kids

Let me tell you about the extremes I used to go to to quiet my colicky baby. But first notice that I used to and to right beside each other in the last sentence. Amazing, huh?

My son started crying at one month and didn’t stop until seven months. Maybe I should clarify that. At one month his default mode was crying unless I came up with ways to get him to stop.

If I stood up and did this little “mommy” step (instinctive to all mothers except the one in church yesterday), he’d stop crying. If, however, I sat down and continued the same exact motion with my upper body, he’d cry. How could he tell the difference? I would stand and gently bounce him until my legs ached, then I’d sit and he’d immediately commence crying like someone had flicked a switch. Stand up – stop. Sit down – cry.

I used to sit in the back seat with him while my husband drove us to wherever we were going. He DID NOT want to be in that car seat, but of course it was the law. When your inside a giant metal box such as an SUV, crying is irritation times two. It’s like having an amplifier – like someone recorded a baby having a screaming fit and cranked the volume all the way up to 32.

It was weird being chauffeured, but I made the best of it. I’d snap my fingers and say, “Drive on, James.” My husband’s name isn’t James, and he never thought it was funny. He’d give me dirty looks in the rear view mirror. When I wasn’t playing rich society lady, I’d attend to my duties as the “keeper of the crying at bay.” I would hold a Binkie in my son’s mouth – not by force or anything. He’d just work it out every five seconds, which was a reason for him to start squalling. I’d fish it out of the valley between him and the car seat and put it back in his mouth, which made him happy until he’d do whatever he did that caused it to fall out. If I simply held it in place – no pressure – I’d let my hand hover over the Binkie, it wouldn’t fall out and we’d have peace and quiet for a few minutes.

If we were going on a road trip, eventually he’d fall asleep in the car. Sometimes the baby would also fall asleep. Ha Ha – a little joke to show how exhausted my husband and I were. When the crying stopped and that sweet peace descended on the vehicle, nobody moved. If we had to go to the bathroom, we held it. There was NO WAY we were going to cut the quiet short by stopping the car. If we were lucky, we’d get up to two hours without noise.

At home I had all kinds of tricks to have cryless interludes. One was to run water. I put my son in the little baby carrier on the kitchen counter and turned on the tap water. He could be twisted and contorted in the awfulest misery – eyes squeezed shut, fists in tight balls, legs kicking – and when the water started, he’d stop cold. He’d get this look of calm wonderment, like “ooo, what IS that marvelous sound? I LOVE IT!” Meantime I’m freaking about the water running, but I figured it was a small price to pay. After about five minutes, the calm would disappear and the crying would start again.

He had this wind up swing someone gave me for a baby shower gift. I’d turn the crank several times – it sounded like rusty gears grinding against each other, then the swing would start. He’d go forward – click – and then back – click – and forward – click – and back – click. It was like a giant windup grandfather clock. With the motion and the steady clicks, he’d soon be asleep. I’d put the swing in front of the bathroom with the door open and dash in there to take the fastest shower on earth. I’d dry off, wiggle into whatever fat clothes I had that were clean, and dash back, just in time for the swing to wind down. If I was lucky, I could wind it back up for another fifteen minute reprieve, but usually all the racket from winding woke him up and he didn’t like it, not one bit. Oh he’d cry!

Another thing I did was put him in his carrier and rest him on top of the dryer. That was good for loading the dishwasher and wiping down the kitchen counters – if I moved at warp speed.

If we were out in public and I forgot his Binkie, I learned an emergency move from his pediatrician, Dr. Ferre. I’d put the tip of my little finger in his mouth and he’d latch onto it like an octopus. Really, I don’t know how something so small could Hooverize a fingertip like that. Sometimes I worried he’d suck a hickey on my finger.

I’m remembering how TIRED I was from all that baby pacifying I used to do. If that baby fell asleep I’d curl up right next to him and try to make up for the ZZZZ’s I lost walking him in the night so my husband could get some sleep.

Luckily, around six or seven months the crying tapered off, just like the pediatrician said it would, thank goodness!

Crying Naked Babies in Church

By

On July 11, 2010

In Kids, Religion

Today we went to church and there were six babies that needed to be baptized.
We are used to a lot of crying on baptismal Sundays, mostly from parishioners because the service lasts so much longer, but this morning there was one very distraught 7 or 8 month-old baby with a high, raspy cry that had all the kids cupping their hands over their ears.

This baby would not stop crying. Most mothers would have the good sense to get up and take the child out of there, but for some reason his mother just kept trying frantically to make him stop by bouncing him harder or shifting him from one arm to another.

Any mother of a crier can tell you this will not work. A crier wants you to GET UP… NOW!!! A crier wants a boob, and if that’s not handy, a Binkie…and MAKE IT SNAPPY! A crier wants to be entertained – he wants to be facing forward so he can see the world and he wants you to spend every second telling him how exciting it is. “Ooo, ooo, see the pretty statue!  Oooo, ooo, see the little girl in the pink dress, isn’t she pretty? Oooo, ooo, see the drool stain on mommy’s shirt? I wonder where that drool stain came from – did you make that drool stain? I think you did. Yes you did. I’m going to GET you. I’m going to tickle you right behind the knee for making that drool stain, yes I am,” and so forth. These are the tools mothers of criers turn to when their babies are annoying the public. It may require 100% of your attention, but at least everybody won’t be staring at you and wondering why you are pinching that baby or shouldn’t you be rushing him to the emergency room.

The whole congregation was staring at this mother who (1) did not have a Binkie, (2) kept turning the child toward her even when it was twisting around to see something besides the same old one foot square of her shirt, and (3) was not whispering and distracting the child from his crying fit. I wanted to go knock the woman down and yank the baby up and soothe him, but that seemed un-Christian.

Even the priest stopped talking and made a joke. He had just started his sermon and he must have realized no one was paying any attention to him even though he was practically shouting into the microphone trying to be heard. About two minutes into the sermon he tried to make a joke, “Well, I see somebody’s trying to tell me this sermon has gone on long enough.” We all laughed but the woman didn’t get the hint. Then he stopped again a couple of minutes later, and said, “I should have made this sermon short enough to post on Twitter.” Again we laughed, and the mom finally got up, which made the baby happy and the church got quiet enough so that I could notice the ringing in my ears. Between the bellowing baby and the shouting priest, it was worse than being at a rock concert.

I knew the quiet was temporary. My son had colic, and colicky, crying babies need continuous, entertaining distraction if you want to keep them quiet. This woman didn’t know anything about any of that.

Sure enough, the bellowing started again, and didn’t stop when they called the parents up for the baptisms midway through the service. A video guy positioned his camera on a ladder over to the side so that everyone in the packed church could see the babies on the big screen above the altar while they were getting dunked into the baptismal font.

The first parents handed their naked infant to the priest so he could lower the baby into the water in the baptismal font. I’ve never liked this naked baby thing, especially when they could be wearing those little swim diapers. A naked baby is just a loaded water pistol ready to be fired, not to mention that nudity seems incongruous in a church, even if it’s a baby. Call me a prude, this is how I feel.

The cameraman zoomed in on the babies, and from his angle, the babies’ privates were at the forefront of the picture, with their faces receding in the background. Every parent of a baby boy knows that for some reason their privates are way out of proportion to the child’s size. If the baby boy weighs 15 pounds, 10 of that is his privates. From the camera angle, and on the big screen, they looked even bigger.

One baby was a spreader, and if I’d been a doctor I could have done a visual colonoscopy. Baby cheeks might be cute, but a gaping baby poo-poo on the big screen is another story.

I started thinking of the family all gathered around years later, watching this video with the grandparents and little brothers and sisters and maybe even the guy’s girlfriend, who insists she wants to see what he looked like as a baby. Then he’s up there on a 60” HD 3D TV with those giant testicles filling the whole screen, and his girlfriend shouts out, “Oh my gosh, what HAPPENED to you? You were bigger as a baby than you are now!” Everyone will hear her because they’ve got the sound turned down due to the screamer. It will cause a scandal. Grammy and Grampy will know the teenagers are sleeping together, which could be all it takes to give one or both of them a stroke. The poor kid with melons for testicles will be marred for life because he’ll forever have his girlfriend’s voice in his head reminding him what a shrimp he’s become in his manhood department. It may be THE defining moment in his entire life. All because of some silly tradition at our church that says babies need to be baptized in the buff.

Back to the story. After they were baptized, the babies were dressed in their cute little white baptismal gowns and were presented to the church, which takes a lot of praying and blessings and welcoming from the congregation. Through it all, the crier never let up. The dad tried to stop him, the mother tried, the Godparents tried, but handing him around did nothing. Finally his grandmother ran up on the altar and snatched the child from his mother. He shut up immediately. She gave him a hair barrett, which he immediately put in his mouth to gnaw on, and that was all the entertainment he needed. The grandmother never turned him loose, even when they all went back to the pew. After communion I noticed he’d fallen asleep in her arms.

Well, this story has taken a lot of time, but it needed to be told in the hopes that if you’re a mother of a screamer, you’ll take that child outside and stop tormenting us. Better still, learn the tricks of dealing with criers. And always keep a grandmother close by in case of emergency.

Oh, and do your child a favor – destroy those naked baby baptismal videos. Oooo, ooo, I just got a great idea. Hold on to them and use them to blackmail your child. I bet you could get him to clean his room, mow the grass, AND get all A’s if you threaten to show it to his girlfriend. Doggone it – why didn’t I think of that?

ADD and the Naked Cowboy

By

On July 10, 2010

In Uncategorized

I heard a comedian on the radio sing a song he’d written for his son who has ADD about a cowboy with ADD. The only part I can remember is the ADD cowboy says he’ll brand some of the cows but he won’t brand them all (I guess because of the ADD). I’m going to Google to see if I can find the rest of the lyrics because it was amusing.

Well, Google was no help. I came up will all kinds of lyrics but not for this song. BUT, I found something even more intriguing – an article about a Naked Cowboy.

You could see how this would distract me from my mission. There’s a cowboy whose claim to fame is belting out country western songs wearing nothing but a white cowboy had, white BVD’s (or whatever they’re called – those white underwear little boys wear and some grown men also wear because they apparently don’t own a mirror).

I like my men in boxers or nothing at all – and if they must be naked, the lights better be down low because the male body is much, much less attractive when it is all exposed. Leave THOSE PARTS to the imagination, please. I’m sure it’s the reason why natives are always pictured wearing a loincloth. Even Tarzan understood this. He went out and bought himself one of those triangle leopard cover-ups that are so popular in the jungle. Tarzan was no fool!

This naked cowboy, who is no Tarzan, is wearing BVD’s, cowboy hat and cowboy boots. But the article was about how he’s got his drawers all wadded up in a knot because a naked cowgirl is trying to hone in on his territory. She’s an ex-stripper who sings own version of songs like, “It’s My Party,” (“Tits My Party”) wearing a hat, boots, and a bikini.

The Naked Cowboy, like all astute businessmen, wants to protect his trademark, which is, uh, the Naked Cowboy. He’s fresh from negotiating a settlement with M&M’s because one of the M&M’s – I think it said the blue one – dressed up in cowboy boots and a hat and underwear and was playing a guitar – JUST LIKE the Naked Cowboy. The Naked Cowboy did not take kindly to this, and he and the blue M&M strutted out to the middle of Main Street. All the townsfolk of New York City ran off screaming to duck for cover when these two faced off, scowling because the strutting had given them both wedgies, but their hands were full of guitars so they couldn’t do anything about it. Fortunately, there wasn’t any bloodshed because lawyers crawled out of the woodwork waving their legal briefs and settled the matter in a professional and gentlemanly manner. They sued and countersued and counter countersued, ad infinitum until the judge rode them all out of town on a rail. (PS I’m taking a literary license here. I had to stand in line half the morning to get it, but it was worth it.)

Just when the Naked Cowboy had gotten his life back to normal, along comes this she-devil. The root o the problem appears to be money. The Naked Cowgirl wanted the Naked Cowboy to sing on a record she was making, but the Naked Cowboy wanted $5,000. The Naked Cowgirl did not have that kind of money. She claimed she was lucky to get a hundred bucks a day panhandling in traffic, and that’s on a good day, and only during part of the year because her work is seasonal. She also appeared to have issues with the Naked Cowboy’s hygiene, saying, and I quote, “When he wakes up, how does he know which way to put on his underwear? Yellow in front, brown in back.”

This mud slinging and catter-walling is probably going to continue until she can come up with the bucks to buy into the Naked Cowboy franchise. In the meantime, you can go to the link below and see a short video of her getting ready to perform in New York. She’s got on fishnet hose, an “Apache” bikini bottom (“rides ups behind you and wipes you out”) and a push-up bra or bikini top. She takes pains to make that bikini bottom reveal as much cheek as possible, and she’s bending completely over to pull on her boots. Now that’s talent!

I’ve got to wonder, how does a person decide on this particular career path? Does it require a degree? Are the benefits good? Do you get dental? What about the hours? How much paid vacation? Is there profit sharing? Retirement?

Or are you just wandering around in your underwear strumming a guitar and hoping some blind old man mistakes a twenty for a dollar? Who can say what drives people to pursue a life in show business?

It is a crazy world we live in, and maybe it’s better to be ADD. And who knows, one of these days maybe I’ll hear those lyrics again and be able to write the post I intended today.

FYI: To read the Naked Cowboy article and see the video, go here:

http://www.aolnews.com/2010/06/22/naked-cowboy-whips-out-his-legal-briefs/

A Day at the Driving Range

By

On July 8, 2010

In Golf

Today I went to the driving range to practice golf for an hour and a half, and oh the things I saw.

One young girl must have been dropped off by her parents for a lesson. As soon as the pro got done with her, she hit three or four balls that barely cleared the mat she was standing on and then sat down on a nearby bench and started texting. I found it curious that someone at the driving range, after forking over $75+ for a private golf lesson, would spend her time holding a cell phone rather than a golf club. She sat on a bench for an hour without taking another swing, and then ambled away, walking like a zombie staring down at the phone in her hand.

Then I noticed a guy sitting on a far away bench talking on his phone. I thought he was waiting for his golf partner to show up or something. All of a sudden he broke into a country music song. He wasn’t just singing to himself, he was belting out soulful lyrics like, “You left me all alone, now all I’ve got’s a cell phone” or some such.

While this Kenny Chesney wannabe was belting the song out to a cell phone, none of us on the driving range said anything, but I was getting pretty irritated, and not just because my balls were going everywhere except where I aimed them. The guy’s voice wasn’t bad, but I dislike country music. And that didn’t annoy me as much as the idea that he was singing to a cell phone. Who was on the other end?

It went on for over a half hour, and I’m not exaggerating. I don’t know if he was singing the same song or what – it all sounds the same to me. As much as the noise was distracting, I was more preoccupied thinking of WHO he was singing to, and WHY. Someone who dumped him? But if she dumped him, she surely wouldn’t stay on the phone all that time listening to him wailing out his sorrows. Maybe he was really some country music star and had just written some songs for a new CD and was singing it over the cell phone so his record company could get the musicians lined up to make a new record. I mean, what on earth would possess an adult male to sit on a golf course bench and sing at the top of his lungs?

But the oddest thing I saw  was a guy on the golf course riding one of those Seqway’s. It’s a one-person vehicle that seems to be built for people who prefer to keep their calories stored up around their belly rather than burning them off walking. This man on the golf course was standing on the unit, his belly hanging over the handle, rolling up to his golf ball while the other three guys he was playing with were walking, and not anywhere close to him, I might add. Why couldn’t he just use a golf cart?

I’m starting to sound like a curmudgeon who resents new-fangled gadgets that detract from the established way of doing things. Well, so what! I think idiots should leave their cell phones, Segways, and nasal country voices at home when they come to the golf course. Where is the decorum these days?

If God had wanted us to behave this way, he would have given us a Bluetooth for an ear and wheels instead of legs.

Here’s the lyric I’m going to sing next time these people start annoying me – sung in a whining voice like all country songs:

If you came here to play

Put your cell phone away

How can you sit there and sing?

When it’s messin’ with my swing?

You ridin’ that Segway’s just showin’ off

That you ain’t go no damn business playin’ golf

Chorus:

If I have to plant my club in your head

Give you a lump that turns all red

To make you straighten up and act right

Then I’m just itchin’ to start that fight.

America’s Stupidest Video Stars

By

On July 7, 2010

In TV

I’m watching America’s Funniest Videos. I just saw a guy who crammed himself into one of those one-piece plastic cars for little kids. His arms were hanging out both sides and one of his legs was out one window and the other was out the windshield area. He started down the hill and hit a dip in the road. The little car nosedived and rolled end over end several times, and this guy had to just endure it because he was wedged in there so tight he couldn’t even be thrown from the vehicle.

You gotta wonder what goes through a grown man’s mind in this kind of situation. Here’s what I imagine:

“You kids today have so many cool toys. We never had cool stuff like this. All we had were tricycles or wagons. I’m going to go for a ride in this thing. What’s that, honey? Sure, I can get in there. Just you watch. This is going to be so much fun!”

There are also the young men on skateboards. Every single time I know what’s going to happen, but when it does I laugh anyway. The kid loses contact with the skateboard, it flips up, the kid’s legs flail open like he’s doing a jumping jack, then the skateboard lands end up at precisely the second the kid crashes down on top of it. With the skateboard pointing straight up at his crotch, the kid gets the equivalent of a karate chop between the legs, and he rolls over on the sidewalk holding his privates and moaning while the other guys around him moan in sympathy and then start laughing.

There’s a lot of humor to be had at the expense of a man’s privates. Every show has videos of toddlers jumping directly onto their dad’s most sensitive area. I can’t understand why, when all men KNOW this area is sensitive, they put themselves in situations that will end up with them curled in the fetal position, rolling from side to side with hands cupped over the injured area, as if trying to protect himself. He should have done that in the first place. Just now two toddlers are taking turns jumping off a couch onto their dad’s stomach. Wonder where this is going?

And how come someone is always holding a video camera at the right time? I’ll tell you. Because the person holding the camera is the mom. She knows what’s going to happen, and rather than warn the dad of the pain he’s about to suffer, she’s thinking, “I know it’s just a matter of time. If I can hold this camera pointed at his privates, he’s going to be rolling on the floor any second now, and we might have a chance at $10,000.”

Tonight they also had bike riders going over jumps. Does any male in America ever make it over a homemade jump on a bike? I don’t think so. Either they break the ramp on the way up, throwing them over the handlebars so that they smack face down on the jump, or they make it over the top of the jump but nosedive on the down ramp, throwing the rider over the handlebars and smacking face down into the pavement.

99% of the time it’s men doing this stuff. This might lead you to conclude that men are just stupid. But that is not the case. Men aren’t just stupid, they also enjoy pain. Take the guy who caught a crab and held it next to his nipple, ON PURPOSE, so it would clamp on. He started screaming in agony as the crab dangled from his second most sensitive body part, and when he tried to pull the crab off, it wouldn’t let go. He finally got it loose, and then DID IT AGAIN. One of his friends was bent over double laughing at him screaming like a girl, and another one was catching it all on video. I have a feeling that guys do this stuff even when they aren’t trying to get on TV.

The women on the show, on the other hand, are usually the victims of some practical joke, or being in the wrong place at the wrong time – like the rotund woman who steps off the dock to climb in a boat, but the guy holding the boat lets it ease away in that instant and she belly flops into the water. Another woman walks in a room and screams when a man pops out of a garbage can wearing a gorilla mask.

So when men aren’t busy torturing themselves, they torture the women. And this is what keeps America’s Funniest Videos on the air.

Men, keep up the good work.

Sleepless Nights? Try Tater Tots and Beer

By

On July 6, 2010

In Food, Writing

I went to the Willamette Writer’s meeting tonight after having dinner with four members of my writing group. We drank beer – a big mistake for me since it makes me very sleepy. I worry I’ll fall asleep and knock teeth out on the beer mug.

The speaker talked about writing mysteries. My group likes to sit in the front row, which meant that I was forced to keep my eyes open and not doze off. Unfortunately, I was not up to the challenge. I had also eaten a whole basket of tater tots, which are often used in primitive jungle cultures as a sleep aid. Fight as I might, my eyes were shut tight.

That’s right. Luckily others around me were taking notes so they couldn’t see my head bobbing, but I know the speaker saw me. She was not blind, after all. The sad thing is that she was quite interesting. Her name was April Henry, in case you want to get her books.

I think I missed out on quite a bit, but here’s the part I heard. If you want to make sure readers will stay glued to your mystery plot, you need to apply a special contact cement to the cover (available at fine publishing houses everywhere). That way they CAN’T put the book down.

If you’re not able to do this for moral or ethical reasons, then you’d better write an interesting story, which is easier than you think. All you have to do is pick out one of your characters and make him your protagonist (the good guy), and then make everyone else act suspicious, and then have an antagonist (bad guy) or two. The bad guys have to do mean things to the good guy in order for the story to be interesting. And one mean thing is not nearly enough – they have to spatter the good guy with so many mean things it would be like getting shot with a shotgun and every little shot would be a bad thing, if you know what I mean.

The presentation was very well done and progressed nicely. In fact, it whizzed by but that could have been due to the tots. Forty-five minutes later, the speaker asked if anyone had questions. This is the part I hate. The auditorium was full, which meant there were quite a few people who needed to demonstrate their writing acumen by asking questions they probably already knew the answer to, just to show off their writing jargon.

For example, one woman said, “In your genre, when do you decide who is going to be the antagonist? Is that during your opening scenes or do you wait until the dénouement?”

The WHAT? The speaker was pretty cool. She wasn’t about to be sucked into such foolishness. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

Unfortunately, this was exactly what the woman wanted to hear, because she elaborated in such contrived babble that I took another ten-minute snooze. When I woke up, she was still spewing jargon like a shaken up Coke.

“I don’t approach my writing that way,” said the speaker, finally. “So I really don’t know how to answer your question. Anyone else have a question?”

I loved it! These long-winded misanthropes waste everyone’s time, and most speakers end up being too embarrassed or compassionate to cut them off. Although I’ll say one thing about them, their sophisticated mumbo jumbo is great background white noise for sleeping.

I have barely been able to keep my eyes open this whole evening. Tots and beer will do this to you, so the moral of this story is – shovel all the crap you can in front of your protagonist and sit back and take a nap while s/he figures out what to do about it. And if you want a best seller, be sure to weave tater tots into the plot. That could put the protagonist to sleep while the antagonist ties little knots in her hair. The possibilities are endless.

Musings on Freedom

By

On July 4, 2010

In Holidays

Happy 4th of July. I hope it is warm and sunny at your picnic because it is FREEZING here in Portland with no sun to be found anywhere. We are getting ready to go to a barbecue and I’m bundling up in socks and long underwear.

I should probably wax poetic about freedom, but what I really want to talk about is the new priest at our church – and the old woman’s handbag. Can I squeeze it all in? I’ll give it a try.

I’m thankful for our freedom here in America. I am very thankful for our government, our highways and parks and schools and public buildings that our freedom (and taxes) allow us to enjoy.

Pressing on to our next stop, the new priest – I really like him. He’s from Washington DC, well-educated and well-spoken, and FUNNY. He told a story about a preacher who was teaching a group of pre-schoolers about the freedom they have as Christians. “Now I’ve told you all that you are free in Jesus. So everyone who is free, raise your hand.” All the kids raised their hands but one. He was grinning from ear to ear. “I just told you that everyone in this room has the freedom of Jesus, so everyone who is free, raise your hand.” Again the one did not raise his hand. The preacher went over and asked him, “Johnny, I just said everyone in this room was free, so why aren’t you raising your hand?” The little boy grinned real big and said, “I used to be free until yesterday, and then I turned four.”

The congregation laughed at this and several other jokes and asides. I didn’t drift off to sleep even once. I think I’m going to like Father Charles very much.

On to our final stop, the old woman’s purse. During Mass, when we got up to go to communion, I went out into the aisle, received communion and went back to my pew from the other end. I saw my purse right there, which threw me completely off, since I then noticed that my purse was where I left it, down at the other end of the pew. Whoa! I felt like I was in a parking lot trying to get into my car, and then noticing my actual car a row away.

These two purses are run-of-the-mill black and white department store purses – not Coach or Prada. Mine was not very expensive, but it is practical and goes with everything and I’ve been quite pleased with it. Until today. Once I saw that someone else had my exact purse, I wanted to see who it was. I settled myself in the pew and watched the people filing in.

Oh my gosh! This very elderly woman with tight curly white hair, and elastic waist pants, baggy button up shirt, old woman orthotic shoes, etc. – she was the one who had the same exact purse as me.

Now I’ve got to get rid of the purse. I carry the same one until it falls apart or I get really tired of it. Luckily I was getting tired of this one. If you think I’m being petty, that’s your prerogative.

After all, it is a free country.

Too Much Spice in My Life

By

On July 3, 2010

In Food, Relationships

I just went to put something away in the kitchen and noticed a whole mess of new spices on an already overcrowded shelf.

This would not worry a normal person, and it doesn’t worry me either, but it bugs the crap out of me on so many levels that they would overflow this post like a stopped up toilet.

Don’t even say the words, “Don’t sweat the small stuff,” because I will fly right out of your computer screen and choke you to within an inch of your life.

There is already a full bottle of Cream of Tartar in the nicely alphabetized spice drawer. Who even uses it? I once had a jar of Cream of Tartar for over 20 years. It’s not in a lot of recipes, and when I needed it, the old stuff worked just fine – it was still as pearly white as the day I bought it. In fact, I only discarded it to make room for the new jar my husband bought a couple of months ago, and NOW THERE’S ANOTHER ONE!

You’re asking, “What’s her problem, so what if there’s an extra little jar of spice? What’s the big freaking deal?” I’m warning you, I am THIS CLOSE to reaching out and poking you in the eyes. It’s not just the one bottle. There are at least 15 duplicate spices in the cabinet, with fresh ones being added daily – and these in addition to the 50 that are in the spice drawer. That’s why I had to alphabetize them – there are so many I could never find the one I was looking for.

It is just baffling to me why my husband keeps buying spices we don’t need. Was there a spice commercial like this – “Did you ever go into your kitchen and whip up a batch of cinnamon cookies only to find that you are (Insert Stabbing Sounds from the Psycho Movie) OUT OF CINNAMON? (Actress with bad complexion and no makeup brings her hands to her face like she’s discovered a dead body). Then you need SPICE INSURANCE! We will send you every spice known to the free world – all for the low cost of $349. When you get ready to run out, just notify us in advance and we’ll replace your spice FREE OF CHARGE (Voluptuous blond actress holds package of arriving spice next to her overflowing cleavage). Don’t ever disappoint your loved ones again with a spiceless recipe (Sad children looking at empty plate). Order SPICE INSURANCE today! (Happy family beaming at their spices with a tray of fresh cookies in the background that you can smell right through the TV).

Ever wonder why I’m not making millions doing TV commercials? I’m a natural, aren’t I? I’d be happy to produce something for you if you’d send money in advance, along with a working video camera.

Here’s the problem. My husband likes to cook, and he likes to grocery shop. He does not like to be bothered with looking in the spice drawer to see what’s already in there. It’s easier for him just to buy a new bottle. He doesn’t care that it will sit on the shelf for the next eight years unopened. I understand that.

What I don’t understand is that we live at the virtual apex of at least 6 grocery stores – two are within a half-mile of our house. There’s a 24-hour Albertsons about a mile and a half away. Would there ever be a time that, if we ran out of a spice, we’d need a replacement faster than the ten minutes it would take to get to the store and back? Is this justification for twenty extra containers of spices taking up prime real estate space on my panty shelves?

If you say, “Yes,” even in a whisper, I will creep out of your computer late one night and pour cake batter in your favorite shoe. You’ll know it was me by the jar of Cream of Tartar I’ll leave as a calling card.

My Great Deal

By

On July 2, 2010

In Fashion

Boy did I get a deal yesterday! I don’t go shopping much because it means getting almost naked in front of a mirror that you can see your front and back sides practically at the same time. I live in a state of denial and refuse to believe that age and chocolate have taken their toll on me. But department store mirrors tell it like it is, and it’s a wonder I’m not still wearing hip hugger bell bottoms and a top made of shoelaces and a bandana. What do you mean, they don’t make bandanas that big??????

You are dying to find out about me standing semi-naked yesterday, and I don’t blame you. I would describe to you what I saw but I tried not to look. I made my fingers into one of those things like Spock does on Star Trek. He puts those first two fingers together and the other two – the little finger and the ring finger – also go together. The thumb stays out of it. Then you try to open and close these two pairs. It’s not easy at first, but you get the hang of it quick and then you’re looking at them opening and closing and start thinking about eating lobster.

Anyway, I used Spock’s hand trick to hold in front of my eyes so I only saw the clothes. And I never looked at the mirror in between outfits. Personally I like to keep a little mystery in my relationship with myself. It’s better to leave something to the imagination, and mine is working overtime trying to get Barbie to appear in place of that – that THING staring at me in the mirror.

But again, you didn’t come here to listen to one of the many tricks I use to make myself more lovable to me. You want to know about the great deal I got yesterday, so here it is.

I play golf in a 9-hole group and I am the official photographer for us ladies, which means they run when they see me coming because they are so sick of me taking their pictures constantly and putting them on the bulletin board. Truth be told, I Photoshop their wrinkles and warts and buggers away so they should be happy, but they’re not. Therefore I feel it is my duty, as representative of the creative arts, to try and not look like a ragamuffin. Especially yesterday when our group had invited ladies from several other 9-hole groups for a little tournament I did not want to be standing up at the luncheon with my tacky old clothes trying to make people smile. I needed a new golf skirt.

I went to a ladies golf shop near my house, and found a skirt for $84! That’s a lot for me to pay for a skirt or anything else. I didn’t pay that much for my first car. But it was so cute – the skirt! I wanted it so bad, but I hung it back on it’s hanger, tucked my tail, and got my cheap ass out of there before that skirt forced me to hand over my credit card. I found a not-nearly-as-cute-but-way-cheaper skirt at another store and snagged it. I wore it the next day and got lots of compliments.

Someone mentioned a sale at a sample store with racks of golf clothes 50% off. Whoo-wee! It just happened to be on my way home. I rushed over there and elbowed several elderly ladies out of my way on the sidewalk and found that $84 skirt, same exact one, for $13!!!!! And it was the only one left, and it was MY SIZE!!!

I didn’t buy it, though. I already had that other new skirt. How many new things does a girl need?

HA – of course I bought it! That’s my great deal, and I feel badly if you won’t be able to sleep after reading how exciting it all was. I just hope it stops raining long enough here so I can get a chance to wear it.

Cartoons No Laughing Matter

By

On June 30, 2010

In Movies

Tonight my daughter wanted to go see Toy Story 3 and I jumped at the chance. Mostly because she doesn’t find much time to spend with me between her job and friends and boyfriend. Although we live in the same house, a teenager’s priority list has “spend time with mom” way down there, after cleaning out her closet and doing her laundry. I wasn’t nuts about seeing Mr. and Mrs. Potato Head, although I remember liking the first Toy Story many years ago.

It was in 3-D, and I was glad to be wearing the 3-D glasses because I got choked up toward the end and my eyes were misting like a foolish old woman who gets sentimental at a movie about a bunch of talking toys whose “boy” grows up and goes off to college.

I identified with those toys. When my son, my firstborn, was a baby, I used to look down at him in my arms and know that, even at that very second, he was getting older. I could see him outgrowing one set of clothes after another until he packed them up and moved away. It broke my heart.

He’s moved out, but his closet is still full of clothes I’ve kept because of their memories. His Tae Kwon Do uniform is still there, plus all his tees and sweatshirts from his high school snowboard team. His Boy Scout shirt is there, even though he was only a scout in 4th and 5th grades. Every souvenir T-shirt he got at Disneyland or at Trailblazers basketball games is there.

What does this have to do with Toy Story? Beats the hell out of me. My son had this big stuffed parrot about the size of a real one that he took everywhere. He’d fly it around the back yard where it found every kind of adventure. Once he propped it up in a swing and took a picture of it, then made a wooden frame and put the picture in it and put that in his bookcase where it still sits to this day.

It’s obvious that this train of thought is not going to produce anything funny, is it? Since I’m on a roll, I might as well see this through. Remember that song, “Puff the Magic Dragon?” I used to sing the chorus when it came on the radio but never knew the rest of the words until it was on a tape of kid’s songs. I listened to the words in the car because those tapes played everywhere we went. I discovered that Puff was a toy, not a real magic dragon. Turns out there was a kid named Little Johnny Paper who played with Puff in a land called Hanalei. Who knows if I’m getting these names right because those tapes were scratchy. This little Paper boy played with Puff until one day he grew up and put Puff away, and Puff never got to come out and play again.

When I first figured out poor Puff’s fate, I was so sad. “What kind of story is that for a kid?” I thought. It ranks up there with Ole Yeller. Ever seen that one? About the sweet family dog that was so spunky and made you wish more than anything that you had a dog just like him, and then… well you ought to rent it if you haven’t seen it, but buy a box of Kleenex.

Oh good grief, I’m whimpering and my eyes are watering. I could think of some more very sad things, but I can’t take it anymore. I have been on an emotional roller coaster ever since I saw that Toy Story movie, and there’s no cure but chocolate. Thank goodness I made some of those no-bake chocolate peanut butter oatmeal cookies. That’s what I’m going to serve right now at my pity party. Wish you could come. We could have a regular bawl-fest as we stuffed cookies in like we were stuffing stuffing into a torn toy. Let the healing begin!

Page 20 of 45

Previous

Next

Copyright © 2021 by Suzanne Olsen